Someone shouted from nearby, tearing Ermolt’s concern away from his friend. He turned to see an oncoming Guard, with at least six more trailing behind him.
Ermolt grinned and roared at them.
They tried to surround him. It was almost as if they thought his weaponless state was a restriction on his ability to deal with them.
After he disarmed the first two that tried to encroach on him, it seemed their opinion changed.
Bladed weapons against fists won every time, if your opponent wasn’t trained at Celnaer Hold. Ermolt had spent countless hours being poked and prodded by his classmates as they taunted him. This was no different.
The ones he disarmed in quick succession broke first. They fled the circle, not looking back. No shouted commands could keep them.
Ermolt didn’t blame them.
A woman dove in from his left flank. Ermolt stepped out of her way, allowing her to rush past with a confused expression. The man opposite from her had to dance out of the way to avoid being impaled.
Another immediately stepped forward and took a slash at Ermolt. He recognized her as the woman who ordered his death. Ermolt took great joy in relieving her of her blade, and then turning it on her. He snarled at her as he cut her down, the shortsword biting into her collarbone where her shoulder met her neck. She fell back, surprise clear on her face, and she took the blade with her.
Ermolt didn’t mind.
He whirled, hands once more empty, on the remaining Guards.
None of them looked confident any more. Ermolt could hear the screams and smell the smoke of those who smoldered with Athala’s flames. He could pick out the sounds of Elise throwing around Guards that underestimated her ability to fight them. And then there was the futility of fighting him. Of winning against a force that could take away your weapon and use it to slaughter you.
In each of the eyes of the four Guards before him, Ermolt saw defeat. He saw panic and fear, but deeper he saw acceptance. They didn’t want to die, but they didn’t think they had another option.
“Go,” Ermolt said, his voice gravely, scratched raw from the smoke and his shouting. “Leave now and never again serve the false Prophet.”
“He’ll kill us,” came a fearful reply. The woman who spoke had lowered her sword already. She looked at Ermolt with a mix of fear and desperation. “He is not a man of mercy, nor pity. If we don’t die here, against you, we die later.”
“Not if I kill him first.”
The woman went to speak, but hesitated. It was as if her fear waged within her, trying to convince her of another course of action. She sighed and sheathed her blade instead. The others around her stared at her, but one by one they also put away their weapons.
“If you wish to have a chance, you had better go, now.” She paused, furrowing her brow. “You may still not make it. The Prophet is a crafty man. But I would be glad to see my daughter one more time, if nothing else.”
“And I my husband,” a man said with a frown.
“Then go. Be with your families. Leave the Prophet and his lies to us.”
Ermolt watched them leave. He didn’t trust any of them. It would be so simple to lie about family and friends and then turn and attempt to run him through when his back was turned.
But all they did was collect those still alive and drag them from the killing floor. And once they were gone, they were gone for good.
Ermolt turned to Elise and Athala. Around them were the dead or dying. Not one Guard seemed to have escaped, but it was likely that they had not feared the unarmed Conscript in the same way.
Athala still looked exhausted. Her eyes were sunken and dark splotches marred her brown skin. He wondered if she had slept these past few days, or if she had spent it all studying.
Ermolt crossed the room to them. There was a brief moment of embrace, spiked with tears of joy. “It’s good to see you,” Ermolt said, placing a gentle kiss to the unruly curls that sprouted from the crown of Athala’s head.
“How did you escape?” Elise asked, brushing some bit of dust or dirt from the wizard’s dress.
“It was actually quite disappointing. They only sent four Guards after us. Sieghard was quite apt at getting us away from them.”
“You give yourself too little credit,” an older wizard said, appearing from the shadows. “She neglects to mention that she wielded the power of a dragon spell to free us first.”
“You learned to use a dragon spell?” Elise asked, her eyes wide in surprise.
Athala nodded, and Ermolt grinned. “Good. We’ll need that power. Come. Ibeyar is attacking Numara’s Temple. We must stop him before he gets to Undyt.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Elise couldn’t help but fret over Athala. The wizard just looked so exhausted, whether from casting so much magic to provide cover to them, or from other exertions.
She also wanted to apologize.
But Athala gave no opportunity, and instead talked as quickly as she could to fill them in on the details of her past few days. Ermolt was sure to share the details of theirs, which by comparison were incredibly boring.
The older wizard, Sieghard, even told them a little more about the Prophet’s hold on the city. Apparently their assessment was mostly correct, but Ibeyar didn’t just show up after the revolution in Gloder got out of control. He’d been here almost since it began, recruiting people and spreading around his name and deeds. Lying and boasting.
Leaders and politicians had taken to him quite quickly, due to his promises of wealth, prosperity, and power. He had offered to make Jirda and Gloder his base of power, to rise them up as twin cities bursting with opportunities unseen in any other place in Neuges.
To Elise, it sounded like his promises were to turn Jirda and Gloder into the kingdoms from the Age of Dragons.
They had been places of power and wealth unimaginable, but also of oppression and despair. The common person was no more than a tool, forced into servitude by those who owned the city. There would be no more freedoms, no more following one’s dreams.
Thousands would flee the city as they refused to be used by higher powers, but eventually other cities would fear invasion from the quasi-kingdoms, and so they too would rise in power.
They too would enslave the people of Neuges.
Elise’s stomach turned as Sieghard told his stories.
“We have to stop him,” she said in a soft but firm voice.
The others paused in their conversation and turned to her.
“Now. We have to stop him now. This fantasy of his cannot become a reality. Not when so many people could be hurt.”
“But how?” Ermolt asked. “I’m not one for avoiding a fight, but we don’t even know our way back to the Temple.”
“I can lead you there,” Sieghard said. He was already moving towards the door. “But we’ll have to move fast. There are Guards all over the city who are likely looking for us.”
“Fine, but that doesn’t solve our other problem.” Ermolt grabbed the front of his armor and tugged gently. The ripped and blood-stained hides almost tore off his chest completely from the damage done to the armor. “We need to get our gear. I might have just fought off a dozen Guards unarmed, but doing so is inefficient. And Conscripts are better trained to deal with unarmed combatants.”
“Anyone Ibeyar has with him at the Temple will be prepared for a real fight,” Athala added with a frown. “But do we have time? If he’s already on his way, the Temple could be under siege. Since we don’t know what he has planned, there’s no way to know how long it will take him.”
Athala and Ermolt both turned to look at Elise. And Sieghard was looking to her as well.
Elise was surprised.
They still expected her to make a decision?
Time and again, Ydia and Meodryt had failed to offer their support. And time and again, Elise had urged her friends to continue on their quest, heedless of the risk.
But still they looked to her for leadership?
E
lise frowned.
They didn’t look to her because of her ties to Ydia. This wasn’t about the God of Life anymore. Her silence had seen to that.
This wasn’t about Meodryt either.
Nor was it about the Age of Mortals.
Ermolt would claim it was about doing what was right—about stopping the city of Jirda from becoming a city of slaves. But that wasn’t right either.
A coldness settled over Elise’s heart. This wasn’t about any of that. And yet, it was also about all of it.
It was about Ibeyar.
There was no one thing she could pinpoint. Perhaps Athala acted in revenge, while Ermolt acted out of a sense of justice. But Elise just wanted him stopped. There was no outside driving force.
Once all was said and done, Elise knew she’d need to talk to her friends. They would need to discuss their mission for the Age of Mortals. She would need to assess their commitment to it, and her own. If Ydia wasn’t going to answer her prayers, Elise wasn’t going to force her friends to follow her for a God who cared nothing for them.
For now though, they knew where Ibeyar was, what his plans were, and that he was afraid of them.
But they couldn’t stop him without weapons and armor.
Gear salvaged from the Guards who had fallen would only get them so far. None of them had shields for Elise to wield, and all of them were human so no armor would fit Ermolt.
Elise also really wanted to have Merylle’s blades in hand when she went up against the Overseer’s killer.
“We can’t fight as we are,” Elise said finally. “Ignoring the idea of fighting a dragon in this condition, Ibeyar is our focus. We don’t need to just fight him. We need to crush him.” She ground her hands into fists. “He’s escaped us so many times. If he gets away today, a thousand bad things will happen, regardless of if his plans come to fruition. He’ll haunt us for the rest of our lives. We need to end this, and to do that, we need to be ready.”
Ermolt grinned. “Dragon or no, he’s not leaving this city alive.”
“Then let’s go,” Sieghard said, opening the door back into the city. “I can get you past all his patrols. We’ll get you back to where you were staying, and then back to the Temple. If we move quickly, it’ll take us about half a bell.” He frowned, and the deep lines on his face cast shadows along his brow. “If that’s not fast enough, then nothing will be.”
They followed the old wizard through the city.
He led them on a circuitous route through alleys and residential streets, making Elise’s head spin as she tried to follow the directions they took.
Many times she heard the heavy boot-fall of Guards searching the streets, but through whatever magic Athala and Sieghard could provide, no Guard ever saw them.
Twice she was sure they were lost. She couldn’t follow the twists and turns and alleyways he was directing them down. But eventually they came to stop in front of the Lucky Turnip, way sooner than Elise expected it should have taken. And via an alley Elise hadn’t even known existed.
There was no time to inspect the oddity of their approach, however.
Elise and Ermolt burst in the door of the inn and waved to Arend before charging to their rooms. Athala and Sieghard stayed in the common room to wait, as neither of them needed to fetch gear.
Back in her room, Elise moved as quickly as she could. She tore her dress off, not bothering with the fasteners. It ripped quickly along the already present tears and holes. She adjusted her armor, adding her bracers and pauldrons to compliment her chain shirt.
There was a long moment where she contemplated leaving her tabard behind.
The yellow-and-white sun of Ydia, with its swoops and whirls, taunted Elise. She wanted to leave it. To spite the God who was happy to spite her. But she knew that the insignia of the Temple still gave her a sense of strength and confidence. It had been her calling for years, and it would see her through this as well.
She put the tabard on, secured it in place, and then grabbed her shield. Usually she would have strapped it to her back, but she was looking to start a fight sooner rather than later. It went against her arm, and was secured into place with belts and buckles.
Lastly, Elise fetched Merylle’s sword and dagger. The Overseer’s belt had been altered by Ermolt to better fit Elise. The weapons sat perfectly against her wide hips, and with them on, a burst of righteousness filled Elise in a way her tabard hadn’t.
When she had arrived at her room, she had still been second-guessing herself about the time they were losing by coming here. But as she felt the comforting weights on her hips and her arm, she felt confident. Justified.
There was much she didn’t know. Even more she wasn’t sure of. She may have been questioning her devotion to Ydia, but her friends looked up to her. It they trusted her instincts, then she would as well. Elise was no leader, but she would do what was right, whether or not it lined up with the goals of her God.
Once Elise was ready, she joined the others in the main room. Ermolt was equipped with his second-favorite hammer, the last weapon he still had from his personal armory in Khule. His favorite hammer was likely still locked up in Auernheim.
He also wore the stone scale armor he had worn during his fight with Sirur. It had been repaired, and even a bit improved, by a local blacksmith during their days of waiting for Ibeyar’s rally.
Ermolt also wore his dragon-slaying lohar axes.
With his hair wild, his weapons gleaming in the low light, and his stone armor restored, he looked powerful. Ermolt was a slayer of dragons. A man to be feared by the Gods, and by their most powerful allies.
Athala, as a wizard, was always ready for battle, but Ermolt had insisted on her taking a simple sheathed dagger on a belt. They were fiddling with adjusting it for comfort when Elise approached. The belt it was on had been part of Ermolt’s barbarian mercenary disguise, so it was wide enough to just drop from her head to her feet without any part of it touching her. Athala strung it across her person, with one loop of the belt over her shoulder like the strap of a purse. Ermolt tightened up the belt so that it sat more comfortably against her side.
It looked ridiculous.
But it was functional. Athala was able to draw the dagger with one hand without need to hold the belt in place. And that was all that mattered.
Not that she needed the weapon. She had magic—and dragon magic at that. She was stronger than both Elise and Ermolt combined, and a tiny dagger would likely do her no good.
But Elise was still relieved to know Athala had another option, if things went horribly, horribly wrong.
When they were all ready, they waved goodbye to the confused owner of the Lucky Turnip, and Sieghard lead them through the streets once more. He took them down back alleys and narrow spaces between buildings that seemed too small to even call an alleyway.
It once more felt like magic that they came across no Guards or Conscripts. In places, they heard the pounding of booted feet and Elise expected a fight. But Sieghard would angle down an alley and the sound would fade.
They arrived at the market square without incident, emerging from an alley into a nearly-abandoned space at the far end of the empty stalls from the Temple.
In the opposite direction from the tavern they’d just left.
Elise tried not to think about it too hard.
Instead she focused on the Temple of Numara.
Across the market square, they could see that there weren’t Guards patrolling the market. But there was about a dozen Conscripts standing guard in the training area outside of the Temple. Each one looked a little bruised and battered, and Elise assumed they were followers of Ibeyar, left behind to guard his back as the fresher troops pushed forward into the Temple.
A few folded-up stalls dotted the market square, and Elise led her friends from one to the next, using them as cover. They managed to get about twenty fen from the training grounds before one of the Conscripts shouted.
Elise and Ermolt sprang from hiding.
/> Ermolt roared as he emerged from the darkness, his bellow of challenge loud enough to make every Conscript flinch.
Elise grinned and they rushed forward.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Half of the Conscripts raised their weapons in response to Ermolt’s battle cry. But they were the ones positioned farthest from him, closer to the Temple doors.
Those in the front recoiled in shock and fear, or snapped into panicked defensive stances without their weapons.
Two men, on the edges of the cluster, broke ranks and ran, vanishing into the night. It was clear to Ermolt from their uneven strides that they might have been too injured to feel they would have had much to offer the fight.
Ermolt charged forward. He pulled up short at the last moment, and the front lines of the Conscripts almost fell over as they prepared to brace for the collision that didn’t come.
With a savage grin, Ermolt brought his hammer around with the momentum of his charge. It swept into their ranks before they could recover from his feint. The weapon slammed into the Conscript to the farthest left with a loud and unhealthy sounding crunch. With a cry, the man limply crashed into the ranks behind him. The hammer continued through the front line, and while it lost too much of the momentum to do the same damage to the other Conscripts, it still knocked the wind from them and sent them staggering away or into one another.
All in all, the neatly formed ranks collapsed under the might of his swing.
Ermolt laughed, a bellowing thing that boomed out over the battlefield.
There had been so much sneaking around and hiding the last few days, and he hadn’t realized how frustrated he had felt. He hadn’t been properly armed and armored for a fight since Jalova, and now, at long last, he was back in his element.
Hammer in hand, encased in stone armor, and surrounded by enemies. It felt good. Right.
He let the joy in his heart rise and mingle with the thrill of battle already settling over him. This wasn’t the blistering cold of the snowfall, but the balmy breeze of first frost.
The snow would come later.
Destiny (Heroes by Necessity Book 3) Page 22
